Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  I glanced across the aisle at Hiram Schuster and his wife. Pat sat stiffly beside them, frowning, and none of the three looked like they were truly in the Spirit.

  Trace propped his foot on the front pew and ran his fingers over the guitar, and a lovely arpeggio filled the sanctuary. Smiling, he belted out the first notes to “Great Is the Lord.”

  I sat up straight and my mouth dropped open. People turned toward each other and then back to the man at the front of the room. No professional guitarist or vocalist could have shone Trace Hughes’s musical ability.

  One by one, the congregation joined the singing. The music was so joyous, so upbeat and happy, that it was nearly irresistible. Amazingly, I heard several people clapping in time with the beat.

  Was this the beginning of a new era at the First Baptist Church of Levi, staunch and loyal backbone of the community, dedicated and sincere followers of the Lord? As it turned out, Trace’s sermon was just as unorthodox as his music.

  “You know,” he said, at last climbing onto the stage so everyone could see and hear him more easily, “I don’t think a sermon has ever been preached that could outdo the Word of the Lord. So, this morning, I’m going to read to you from the Book of Deuteronomy, twenty-eighth chapter. I think it’s something we should take to heart. It’d be good if every politician in state and federal governments could hear this at least once a week.”

  And, that’s what he did. He read the whole chapter without leaving out a verse. Those ancient words became vivid and alive through the smoothness of Trace’s voice. Even Grant, who had been sitting with his arms folded across his chest during the singing, relaxed and had an attentive look.

  At the end of the chapter, Trace bowed his head, said a short prayer, and told us we were dismissed. The church buzzed like a hive of busy bees as we left, but I felt singularly blessed and refreshed by this unusual service. The only question I had was why this man, whom the Lord had showered with good looks and talent in abundance, was content to be the pastor of a small, countrified church in northeast Oklahoma?

  Chapter 10

  “What a crowd!” I said to Mom as we stood in the kitchen Sunday afternoon. “The notice Mort put in the paper helped bring ’em in. Or, we could have just skipped the ad and told Megaphone Mouth—I mean, Mort.”

  “Now, Darcy, you aren’t giving Mort the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Ventris County is full of well-wishers.”

  Mort Bascomb, our newspaper’s busy editor, had placed our housewarming notice on the front page, but most likely he told everyone in Ventris County as well. Mort completely dispelled that decidedly unfair adage about a woman not being able to keep secrets. Not that this housewarming was a secret, but Mort was the worst gossip I knew. Tales that didn’t make it into the paper got around town anyway, by way of Mort’s tendency to sit at Dilly’s cafe and chitchat. Sure, he picked up lots of news items that way but, in the process, he offered quite a few rumors to sort of prime the pump, as he called it. Some of those stories, like the legend of Ben Ventris’s gold, should have been kept quiet.

  Jackson Conner paused in carrying a fresh platter of cookies out to the porch. “I don’t think Mort means any harm though I agree, Darcy, he sometimes talks when he shouldn’t.”

  “Maybe Mort is partly responsible for so many people,” Mom said. “But there’s the added attraction of wanting to meet our new preacher.”

  She took off her apron, folded it, and put it into a kitchen drawer. “Brother Trace looks like he’s having a good time. I see he brought his guitar.”

  A group of our visitors sat around Trace Hughes, who was perched on the porch railing. His guitar music provided a nice background to the happy chatter of the guests.

  Looking at the well-wishers who pretty much lined our wraparound porch, I felt sure that every person in Ventris County who wanted to come was here. As Mom said, some were strangers until tonight. She and I had greeted everyone, learning new names but, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember all of them.

  Tim Johnson, the new lawn person for the Jenkins twins, sat near them, evidently enjoying the conversation. He had a pleasant face. His laughter punctuated whatever story Miss Georgia was telling.

  “You know, if Mr. Johnson wore a red suit, he would look like Santa Claus,” I said to Mom. “He’s got that pretty head of white hair and a full white beard.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “And, he seems so jolly, a happy addition to any crowd. I meant to tell you that I talked to him a few minutes ago about helping with the lawn. He said he’d be glad to do that.”

  Burke Hopkins, our quiet Cherokee friend from the country, sat in a lawn chair next to Grant’s secretary, Doris Elroy. Hiram and Hattie Schuster sat on the porch steps, along with Viola Prender and Amy’s husband Jack Miller. Jack was the quiet type; Amy was the outgoing half of that couple, but Amy seemed happy, and that must mean that Jack was a good husband.

  Taking another look at Burke, I felt a niggling worry. He had always reminded me of Ben Ventris. Perhaps they were related? He looked tired, not the robust man I had known for years. Miss Georgia was right to retire him from mowing their lawn. The Methodist Church’s octogenarian custodian, Gladys Holcutt, sat near Burke, a cookie in one hand and a glass of tea in the other.

  Mort wasn’t sitting; he was circulating, gathering, I felt sure, lots more juicy tidbits he could follow up on.

  Grant and his deputy Jim Clendon were on duty and missing from our celebration. Jasper, too, was missing. I wondered if Grant had tracked him down yet.

  Amy appeared from the guest room where she had stashed the supplies for our moonlight stroll.

  “It’s getting on toward dusk,” she said, shaking the paper sack she carried. “I’ve got flashlights and maps here. Should I hand them out now?”

  “No, wait’ll I collect the trash from this bunch,” Pat Harris answered, coming through the kitchen with a black garbage bag. “I’ll just go out on the porch and pass this around. Everybody can dump their paper plates and cups in.”

  “It’s a long time until dark,” I said, glancing at the clock. “It is only six but you’re right, those clouds make it an early dusk. I sure hope it doesn’t rain out that wonderful stroll you are so set on, Amy. I don't think there will be any moonlight.”

  Amy giggled. “Oh, I don’t know. A few thunder claps and lightning flashes will add to a ghost walk, don’t you think? Especially when we get to that old cemetery.”

  Shaking my head, I decided to let Amy have her way if she preferred to call it a ghost walk. However, I was in charge of this little evening outing and I would make sure no one thought our acres were spooky.

  Delving into the sack, I gathered a stack of handmade maps and took them to the front porch. Amy trailed behind me with the flashlights.

  Several of our guests, including Burke and the three women who had ridden with him, opted to forego this activity in favor of going home.

  As Burke came up to thank me for the invitation, he grasped my arm. “Darcy, I’m kind of worried about something. I can’t tell you right now but I need to talk to you soon.”

  “Sure,” I said, not liking the tension I saw in his dark eyes. “Come over any time or, if you’d rather, I can drive out to your house.”

  He nodded and turned to follow the Jenkins twins and Miss Holcutt to his truck. Some of the other guests took a look at the gathering clouds and declared they had had a great time but needed to do the milking or feed the chickens or be sure their dogs had food and water. Only about a dozen brave souls lingered for our ghost walk—I mean, evening stroll.

  Raising my voice, I spoke to the group on the porch.

  “We’ve had a great time this afternoon. Thank you all for coming. Amy is giving each person a flashlight and I’ll be handing out maps that describe what we’ll be seeing. We’ll tour part of the grounds, starting with the herb garden behind our house. We’ll follow the stepping stones through the herbs and down to the orchard, then across to an old cemetery that ha
s been there for more than a hundred years, and finish by making a U-turn and coming back to the house over our bridge. Please go to the kitchen and have a glass of iced tea when we get back. I imagine after this jaunt, we’ll need it.”

  “Ooh,” said Viola, shivering. “I don’t know about this. I’ve heard some scary tales about that cemetery. It’s supposed to be haunted.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “Oh, for goodness sake, Mrs. Prender, I hope you aren’t serious.”

  “Well, maybe, just a little, Darcy. You young’uns don’t believe in old tales and superstitions, but there’s got to be some truth to them.”

  Never in all the world would I tell Viola, but that deserted graveyard gave me the shivers and I avoided it when possible. It held a secret, unmarked grave. I remembered an incident that happened there a few months ago, the feeling that I was not alone when actually, I was. Quite alone. I think.

  Trace Hughes smiled at Viola. “Remember to trust in the Lord, Mrs. Prender,” he said. “We know that evil exists in this world, but I’ve never believed in ghosts.”

  “Thanks,” I said. He stood very near, holding his flashlight and his map, his guitar once again slung over his shoulder. I didn’t believe in ghosts either, but his presence was reassuring as well as something else—exciting, maybe?

  “How is your burn?” he asked.

  “It’s healing nicely. That was so clumsy of me and embarrassing too.”

  Shaking his head, he said. “I feel responsible. I startled you.”

  Laughing, I touched his arm. “You are in no way responsible.”

  He put his hand over mine where it lay on his arm.

  “Darcy, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. There’s so much that I need to say but somehow, I can’t find the right time or the right words.”

  “We’d better get back across that bridge before Lee Creek starts to rise,” Pat declared. “From the looks of those clouds, Darcy, we may have heavenly fireworks as a grand finale.”

  As if in answer, an ominous rumble of thunder growled in the distance.

  “You’re right, Pat,” I said, grateful that she had changed the subject and offered a reason for me to move away from Trace and walk to the front of the little group.

  Chapter 11

  My faithful followers trooped through the house, out the back door and into the herb garden. Its tangy fragrance engulfed us as Mom, with Jackson at her side, beamed her flashlight onto the plants and explained the uses of various herbs and bushes.

  “Lemon balm is good for tea,” she said, “and it smells nice too. I’ve made an ointment from these gray mullein leaves. Sage can be made into an occasional hair rinse as well as used in the Thanksgiving stuffing. But, even though these lily of the valley have beautiful little bell-shaped blooms, they are poisonous, as are many herbs and flowers. It’s best to have a healthy respect for them all and find out exactly what they will or won’t do.”

  We moved slowly past Mom as she spoke, walking along the stepping stones, under branches of dogwood trees and to the old orchard.

  Here, I stopped long enough to tell a story about gathering apples with my Granny Grace when I was a little girl, and the tasty applesauce she made. I remembered the scent of wood smoke mingled with the enticing aroma of the apples which simmered all day over a wood fire in the back yard.

  We wound past the orchard’s gnarled limbs and were in the cemetery.

  “We aren’t sure who these people are,” I told my followers, shining my flashlight over the leaning gray headstones. “They may have been early settlers or perhaps Cherokee people.”

  Like earthbound fireflies, circles of light from the flashlights slid over the ground, causing shadows of the headstones to dance across the grass. The crowd fell silent.

  A rising wind sighed through surrounding trees, and flashes of lightning shivered across the sky.

  Something moved in the tree I stood under. An owl lifted off from a limb and flew silently away. Without meaning to, I had stopped beneath the cottonwood that grew close to the unmarked grave.

  I did not believe in ghosts, but that lonely grave, with no name to mark it, gave me an uneasy feeling. Amy and her talk of a ghost walk! My childhood fear of the unknown, the coming storm, and the darkness of the night grasped me with invisible fingers. I was through with this. I wanted nothing more than the warmth and light of my mother’s kitchen.From somewhere in the darkness of trees and undergrowth, a moan began. It grew louder until it sounded like the wail of someone in extreme pain. The hairs on my arm stood up, and I could not have moved if I had tried.

  “What was that?” Viola whispered, breaking the paralysis.

  Flashlights flickered through the trees and bushes as we searched for the source of the unearthly scream.

  “I didn’t know there were any left in these woods, but that, ladies and gentlemen, was the scream of a mountain lion. Some folks called them cougars or panthers.” Mort’s usually authoritative voice sounded shaky.

  Mort was right. I had heard that chilling wail once before and would never forget the wild cat that slipped across the road in front of me in the dark woods not far from here. It was time to end this walk.

  Doris spun on her heel. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m going back to the house. Whether that was a mountain lion or...or whatever, I don’t want to meet it.”

  Without warning, something dropped from the cottonwood which grew over that unmarked grave, something long and white.

  Amy screamed.

  A zigzag of lightning slashed the murky sky followed by a deafening peal of thunder. As if this were the signal, the clouds opened and rain poured down.

  “Run!” Amy shouted.

  “Don’t panic!” I yelled. “You’ll smack into something and fall. It’s only a little rain.”

  No one heard me. Or, if they did, they paid no attention. Dodging tree limbs and rocks, the small group of adventurers bolted for the safety of their cars. Our evening stroll became a stormy stampede.

  Chapter 12

  The delicious aroma of perking coffee teased my eyes open on Monday morning. Glancing out of the window, I saw that the sun was not yet up, although the rooster in the chicken yard certainly was awake. Over and over, he voiced his enthusiasm for a new day.

  Yesterday had been just as busy for my mother as it was for me. How did she maintain her energy and wake up early every morning? At the moment she was undoubtedly sitting downstairs with her cup of Folgers, her Bible open on the kitchen table.

  “I need to have my daily spiritual vitamins,” she had told me more than once.

  Her complete confidence in God made more and more sense to me. After Jake’s death, and actually even before his death, God seemed to be far away. Why had the Lord taken my husband, this man I loved with all my heart, and left me to struggle on without him? It was a slow process, but, little by little, I was learning to trust God again.

  Sometimes, my life with Jake seemed unreal, as if it had never happened or had been a dream. At other times, something happened that brought him sharply into focus. Life with Jake had been exciting and fun. His impromptu bouquets of flowers, a mysterious drive to a new place he had found for a moonlight dinner, trips to the seashore or to the mountains, all of these had been part of those magical years.

  Immediately, our new preacher popped into my mind. Without doubt, Trace was attractive and intriguing. However, I did not want to become entangled in an emotional triangle. Grant loved me—I knew he did—and I loved Grant too. Unbidden, a little voice seemed to whisper, “But, how much, Darcy?”

  Scooting Jethro off my pillow, I yawned, stretched, and swung my feet to the floor. Enough quandaries. I needed at least two cups of coffee for my brain to function properly. Besides, there were some things I wanted to discuss with my mother.

  Jethro glared at me and stalked in regal dignity into the hall. That cat must have been descended from royalty. Such an attitude!

  Going to my closet, I reached for a pair of blue j
eans and a red-and-white striped sleeveless shirt. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail, slipped into some flip-flops and hurried downstairs.

  “Good morning, Sleepyhead,” Mom said, smiling. She closed her Bible, went to the cabinet and took down another cup.

  I filled the cup and sat down. “It really isn’t so late. It’s just that you are an early bird.”

  “You know how it is. Once my eyes pop open, there’s no getting them shut again. Besides, I wanted to think about a few things and pray. Prayer is the best way to start the day.”

  Ah. That first sip of Folgers tasted as good as it smelled.

  “I want to talk to you about some things too, Mom. The housewarming went off well, in spite of the storm, don’t you think?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I enjoyed having everyone here, seeing old friends and meeting new ones, but taking that evening stroll might not have been such a good idea.”

  “It was Amy’s plan. She thought it would be interesting. And, it was certainly that. Do you think that was really the scream of a mountain lion we heard? It sounded awfully close.”

  “Yes, I do,” Mom said. “We know some still live in these parts, although lots of people think they are all gone.”

  “Something else happened on that ill-fated walk. Did you think you saw something white drop out of the cottonwood or was that my imagination?”

  Mom laughed. “Yes, I saw it, but I’m pretty sure it was just a dead limb that fell off when a gust of wind caught it.”

  Swallowing my coffee, I said, “You’re probably right but I doubt that any of our little group of explorers will believe it.”

  Mom laughed. “They did look scared when they got back to the house. I noticed that most of them left pretty quickly.”

  “I’ve never liked that old graveyard,” I said. “I know it’s silly but it gives me the shivers. Maybe it’s that one lonely grave without any headstone. Do you think we should put something up to mark that grave?”